


Trophy

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Can also be read as a readerfic, F/M, Hunting expedition, Outdoor Sex, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Tarkin may be all swallowed up by politics and tall buildings now, yet there remains a feral streak in him. He moves like a predator, silently slinking through the tall grass to lay in wait patiently. It is a wonder how he can still appear youthful with his grey hair, but he does. He moves like a much younger man, and the fire in his gaze –Yes, there is that other reason she wants to be here, needs it. She presses her thighs together. She’s so close to asking him for it, yet her pride is still worth more.





	Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Marvel comic Darth Vader #18, where the woman Yerga and the Chadra-Fan trackers Hardhear and Sissian are members of Tarkin’s team of hunters, and also by several incredible Tarkin drawings on Tumblr. Many thanks to aleaiactaest93 for betaing this. Any remaining mistakes are my fault for tinkering with it after she was done…

The heat and the lack of progress has made them all jumpy. Even Tarkin, known for his ruthless but controlled professionalism, has taken to barking orders to the few of them that are left. Eight out of nineteen. If slim when they set out on the hunt, the odds are catastrophic now. She knew it from the start; they all did. Lord Vader is not like their usual quarry. His reputation alone is more fearsome than a rancor, his actual appearance enough to send a pack of nexus away whimpering. Now, on the tenth day, her nightmares are filled with the sound of machine-aided breathing.

It is a strange hunting expedition, this one, she muses as she searches for firewood at the outskirts of their camp. It’s far from her first with Tarkin, nor is it her first with human quarry. But it is the first where the outcome is truly unknown. The idea, when presented to her, made her heart thrum with excitement. For Tarkin, it is, apparently, a twisted game. For Vader, too. For her, it may be the very pinnacle of a career founded on risk-taking, ever seeking thrills to surpass the previous one. That it may be her last only adds to the excitement.

Hunting with Tarkin is always worthwhile. The danger is intoxicating, the game exquisite. He usually takes the trophies. She couldn’t care less. If physical possessions were what she was after, she’d have chosen another career, somewhere closer to the core worlds, not the professional hunter’s babysitting of wealthy city-dwellers who like to brag about having pulled the trigger on some creature others had tracked and herded towards him.

Tarkin is different. He may be all swallowed up by politics and tall buildings now, yet there remains a feral streak in him. He moves like a predator, silently slinking through the tall grass to lay in wait patiently. It is a wonder how he can still appear youthful with his grey hair, but he does. He moves like a much younger man, and the fire in his gaze –

Yes, there is that other reason she wants to be here, _needs_ it. She presses her thighs together. She’s so close to asking him for it, yet her pride is still worth more.

“He looks like an old tortoise when he sleeps,” the blond bitch in the bar had said before they set out. It had cost her two teeth. Yerga still hasn’t decided what made her the most furious about that remark – the mocking of him, or the _knowing_. The rest of his life she doesn’t give a kriff about. That is his alone, out of her reach. But here, only she sees him sleep.

Awake, he’s all sharp angles and planes, a landscape she never tires of exploring on the rare occasions the opportunity is given to her. Their couplings happen mostly in the field, hurried affairs between one kill and the next.

Why is she so fiercely protective of him? Maybe it is their shared heritage. A planet in common may not be much, but it links them together.

She watches Tarkin out of the corner of her eye. She would never criticize him, but his gear shows influence of another life, one where practicality matters less than aesthetics. The boots hugging his legs all the way to the thighs are fine, not dissimilar to her own and a reasonable choice in the prickly underbrush. But the pockets on his jacket? Nobody needs that many.

She lets her hungry gaze take him in more closely, caress him like her hands want to, but can’t. Starting at his feet, she runs her eyes along those long legs encased in leather, stopping momentarily to admire the stylish flare at his thighs and then continuing to where his jacket flaps, parted as he crouches to examine the ground, fail to provide even a token of modesty.

He is obviously excited, and the itch that has plagued her the last hours only grows worse at the sight of the bulge in his trousers. The others must have seen it as well; he makes no attempt to hide his condition. She brushes a hand against her own crotch, momentarily regretting it. Her fingers are a poor substitute for his, for him. She does it again, pressing harder this time, rubbing herself through her clothes. Whyever did he invite her if he intends to do nothing but let the days pass?

At least, all possible contenders are gone, disposed of by the black monster they are tracking. They did not deserve such a death. But it is the living she must think of now, with their needs and wants and limitations. She rubs her crotch again and this time she is sure that Tarkin sees her. A flicker appears in that hard gaze, his lips parting without as sound as he stares. His eyes narrow again and he turns away, his proud profile lit by the sinking sun.

Waiting is agony, she muses as she moves farther from the camp. She is not far from pressing herself against the stick in her hand, or the nearest tree, anything to scratch that itch, to provoke a reaction from him. If he knows, it only makes him clench his teeth and distance himself from the others. She is left with reminiscing other hunts, more successful ones, bloodied hands grabbing in the dark, frantic couplings when they were both flushed with victory. A whimper crosses her lips. Only one, but this is exactly the carelessness that gets one killed.

As a hand grabs her upper arm from behind, she spins around as she drops her burden, her dagger slashing at her assailant. Only his reflexes save him. It is Tarkin, his eyes flashing with contained fury – and something else entirely. The blade has pricked his cheek and she watches a crimson drip form. Dagger still in hand, she lunges forward and catches it on her tongue. The taste is maddening, she would have more, tries to lap at his face again but he holds her off, by her wrist. His other hand grips the hair at her neck. His strength excites her as much as the fire in his eyes.

“Bitch,” he hisses.

“You randy… womp-rat!” Ha! He didn’t expect that one.

His eyes narrow and when he speaks again, there’s an edge of danger to his voice. “Maybe we both speak the truth.”

A shiver of excitement washes over her, the ache at the junction of her thighs unbearable now.

He has backed her up against a tree, one of those with a purple crown. He is hard against her leg, grinds into her, and it takes only a small adjustment to feel him where she wants it. What a pair they make, him still gripping the wrist of her dagger hand, his other hand remaining fisted in her hair, although he has relaxed his grip. She has one hand free and gropes at his ass, pulling him closer still.

They are both panting, frantically grinding against each other until a rustle in the undergrowth makes her go rigid. He reaches for his rifle, searching the territory around them until a tracker’s low whistle confirms that all is well. She sheathes her knife. What now? Did the wretched animal ruin his mood?

She brushes her hand against her burning core, registering with satisfaction the soundless gasp from him. Rifle again on his back, his hands cup her face, his mouth crushes hers in a kiss that takes her breath away with its violent urgency. Their frantic rutting starts again and the heat pooling between her thighs is near unbearable.  

“There is time,” she tells him, and herself. “Please, say that there is time.”

“There is,” he says and smiles smugly, continuing to rub against her. “Not much, but Hardhear and Sissian are standing guard. If this is how you wish to spend the break –”

She lurches forward for another kiss, she needs it. Needs being connected to him, closely, any way possible. His hand is on her chest now, rubbing her breast through her shirt. She rips it open. Who cares if he thinks her desperate? The eager hand that quickly covers the ground left by the material does not complain. This is what she has been longing for, and more. Her nipple puckers eagerly underneath his palm, then the fingertips that circle it. He stills his hand and kisses a trail along her neck, stopping with his head against her shoulder.

For a moment there is something in the way his face fits against her neck, his lips brushing against the hollow above her clavicle as he leaves much too tender little kisses there. She leans her cheek against his forehead. His hair is the softest she’s felt in any man.

Just as quickly, the feeling is gone, overshadowed by the _need_. She cups him through his trousers, with both hands, knowing the effect it has on him. It feeds his ego and his libido in equal measure and just the muffled sound he makes as she rubs him is almost enough to make her come.

“Now,” she says with urgency in her voice. “Now, please, I cannot wait, I – please –” She will surely perish if their time runs out before –

He knows, of course he does. One hand glides down her front and presses for a moment, just _there_ and she jerks uncontrollably – the bastard! – and while she rides out her orgasm he breathes into her ear, whispers how good he’s going to make her feel, again.

His smug smile as she opens her eyes makes her want to hit him.

“Wasn’t it good? Hm?”

“You waste our time together. I could have done that myself!”

“Really?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You needn’t worry. If you think I’m going to leave without giving you a proper fucking – “

She loves when he talks dirty. It happens so seldom. Even in the heat of a hunt he issues orders with a precise military-honed crispness that speaks of control more than passion. It’s the latter she wants, for him to get rid of all that imperial schooling and simply feel, and act.

As he opens his fly, she deftly unfastens her trousers at the hip, then tugs the zippers at the side that allows her to peel them away. The design may not have been done with these activities in mind, but it works for that, too. Less flesh exposed to the stinging flies and the mosquitos whose bites plague her nights. There are so many nuisances here, and so few comforts. And yet he continues to pursue this life, they both do. If he would just hurry up!

“Turn around,” Tarkin says, his voice hoarse. His hands are on her hips, guiding her into position, fingers trembling slightly. Secretly smiling at the effect she has on him, she places her palms against the trunk of the tree, bracing for what is to come. She needs him, his sinewy body with its unfathomable strength in spite of his thin build. Arching her back, she casts a glance over her shoulder.

“Just like that,” he praises her, long slender fingers gliding over her rump, then down between her thighs. She catches his gaze the precise moment when he touches her, when he feels how wet she is. Slowly he lets his fingers glide along her slick folds, then delve deeper, thrusting at a measured pace. His thin lips part in an almost-grin at the guttural sound that escapes her. This. So good. She would tell him, only it’d make him insufferable. Instead, she moans. Not loud, only just for the two of them to hear.

She must turn her head back, it is inevitable. The tree makes a good rest, its bark emitting a sour-sweet fragrance, the only comfort in these forsaken lands.

The suddenness with which he enters her makes her gasp. Caught unawares, she is jostled against the tree, driven up against it, forced to stand on tiptoes. It is not for long. She finds his pace, meets his thrusts as they chase, faster, together.

So little connects them physically. How then can she feel so close to him?

She wishes that she could hold him. Instead, she makes do with what she has; this is something she is well versed at. His hands are on her hips, holding not nearly hard enough before they glide up to her breasts. He is panting now, his thighs slap against hers but the sound within her head is louder. Giddiness rises in her chest, like a flutter that starts beneath, at her core, and spreads upwards through her belly, chest, throat and it wants up and up and out, and while he drives into her again and again it is released, and she laughs, squeezing her eyes shut. To see would be too much.

He is not far behind; he grunts and squeezes her hips, then stills.  He slips out after a couple of half-hearted thrusts, but remains standing behind her, caressing her sides gently, almost fumbling, while he catches his breath. She lets him, allows him his privacy until he quickly presses himself against her a last time. Then, she turns around. He is the stern-looking professional again, though with a slight blush on his cheeks, and a strand of hair that hangs into his eyes in a way that makes him at least twenty years younger. The hint of a smile tugs at the left corner of his mouth.

Tarkin isn’t one for small talk, yet she needs to speak, needs him to confirm that he is still aware of her presence. “Next time,” she says as she straightens her clothes, “I want a tent.”

“Hm.”

“A blanket at least.”

He remains silent.

“Your jacket, then. Come on! Anything.” Anything so I can see your face while  –

“So fond of this still?” He touches his face and grimaces when he comes across the nick she gave him, but his satisfaction is evident in the glitter of his eyes. He is still here, with her. His thin smile is brighter than the sun in zenith. “After all these years.”

“You haven’t given me much chance to look at it lately.” It’s been a year since the last expedition. Since the last time they –

“When this is over,” he remarks, “I will lock us up in a luxury hotel for a week.”

“In a suite? With a pool? A whirlpool bath?”

He nods.

She knows better than to believe him, but the thought is nice. A dream’s thin veil of clear, cool water over the scorching reality. Even at dusk, the air shimmers with heat.

“Anything you like.” His voice is flat now, empty, his gaze already distant. He has returned to the hunt. He whistles, and the Chadra-Fan’s response comes. Two quick chirps. They are leaving.

For the moment relieved of conflicting signals from her body, she feels the lust for hunting return. The relief is only temporary, a bleak foretaste of the feast that will follow once the quarry has been brought down. They may not be there yet, but they will take the black fiend down. Tarkin will be victorious. And if the end of this hunt is long in coming, she may be able to have him once more before then.

There are others in her bed, her life; there must be. But it is only for Tarkin – _Wilhuff_ – that she will add another notch to the meticulously carved row on the stock of her favourite rifle.


End file.
